As though hit by a blast from a giant hair dryer, my hometown of Somerville is melting. The snow is first to go, but I can’t help but notice how much of the infrastructure is crumbling, too. Roads, for example, which have developed some truly impressive potholes. The front steps of our apartment building, which have buckled under the weight of the snow. Sidewalks. Small dogs that have been stuck in snowdrifts for months, surviving only because batty old ladies bring them kibble whenever the constant blinding snowstorm abates. I do believe that ice may be all that’s keeping some of this stuff together. (Especially the dogs, who have adjusted to their new existence and would be traumatized by release.)

My guess is that this summer will be at least as ridiculously overwrought as this winter has been. Some junk science and a horde of squalling liberal fascists suggest that we now live on a planet of constant meteorological opera. But, as Nostrodamus once said, that’s bullshit. What is opera to me? I don’t even speak Italian.

In other news, today I pick up our first farm share of…THE SPRING. It will include beets and carrots and rosemary and apples and a bunch of other stuff that I will cram into the slow cooker tonight while I read another book for Sidekicks, write another article for ForeWord, whip up a library-themed article for to enter a competition, finally catch up on my work for No Flying No Tights, and blast into the upper atmosphere with the sheer power of my awesome. And, of course, I’ll catalog about a million books before all that. No biggie.